


The Diver

by neveralarch



Category: Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: M/M, Other, Tentacles, Triggers, Xeno, dubcon voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traveling together is something of a strain. (Post-SftD AU fic, where the Doctor takes the Master with him, and then they don't work out any of their issues.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diver

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for (non/dubcon) voyeurism, (consensual) tentacle sex, xeno, and an outside view of a character being triggered during sex.
> 
> Also, this is, essentially, two-year-old drawerfic, and the writing is kind of choppy. Attempts have been made in the past to fix the structure and so on, but I'm just not in that headspace anymore. Hopefully you'll get something out of it anyway!

The Doctor hadn't thought about what traveling together would mean. With the Ke Le divisions approaching and the Chinese detonating their bomb, the Doctor had decided that living to fight another day was more important than fighting with the Master now. They had rushed into the TARDIS and the Master had set her off. The Doctor had breathed a treacherous sigh of relief as they left that nightmare behind.

He hopes that everything worked out, that the Brigadier and Brimmicombe-Wood were able to sort out the aftermath. But, honestly, mostly the Doctor worries about the Master and about what they're doing here.

The Master is touchy and more than a little bit jumpy, probably from his twenty years on Earth. He starts at strange noises, and he doesn't react well at all to a comforting hand on his shoulder, at the small of his back. Instead, the Master likes to ensconce himself in the corners of the TARDIS, hole up with a book and a bottle and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist.

When they were young, they would never ignore the other. The Doctor thinks that if he employed a soft touch and quite a bit of understanding, he could renew that former intimacy and all the... benefits that came with it.

But he's old and he's tired and he was recently lobotomized and exiled. The Doctor has no patience for soft touches, not any more.

So the Master pilots the TARDIS, and the Doctor adventures, and neither of them speaks to the other very much. It's an odd way to do things - there's no companionship, but there's not the privacy of being on your own, either.

The Doctor gets urges, from time to time, and he can't satisfy them in the TARDIS, not when the Master understands her so much better than the Doctor's compromised brain can. For the same reason the Doctor won't ask the Master for a bit of mutual pleasure, he also won't indulge himself where the Master might hear or see or feel. It would simply be awkward.

So the Doctor just turns off his sex drive, instead. It's an easy procedure, and it solves many more problems than it could possibly create. He's done it in the past, when he was traveling with company.

He had thought that the Master had done the same. This, as the Doctor is discovering, was an erroneous assumption. Instead, the Master just seeks out his pleasures elsewhere. Earth, no doubt, lowered his standards.

The Master had left the TARDIS today, his first journey outside in well over a month of subjective time. The Doctor, on the other hand, decided to remain behind - it's easier to discover what the Master's up to using the TARDIS' external cameras, rather than trying to follow him. The Doctor doesn't trust the Master enough to ignore this little jaunt, of course. That would be the epitome of foolishness.

The Doctor isn't sure whether the Master knows he's being tracked. Perhaps he thinks the Doctor can't even do this much, or perhaps he can feel the cameras on him. Either way, it's apparently not enough to stop the Master from putting on a show.

This planet is populated by aliens who are an odd cross of octopi and otters- bipedal, with furry bodies and stream-lined, muzzled heads, but possessing three tentacles on each shoulder rather than forelimbs.

The Master had gone into the local equivalent of a bar, ordered a drink, and almost immediately gone off with what the Doctor supposes is a reasonably attractive specimen of the populace. Now they're in some sort of dwelling, both undressing with an admirable amount of calmness. The Master is divested of his trousers, pants, and jacket, and the alien is removing protective sleeves from its limbs. They're chatting with each other about something, but the Doctor hasn't turned the sound on. Perhaps they're discussing likes and dislikes, issues of compatibility. The Doctor has had casual sex before, but he has to admit that he's always been nervous and unsure about it. The Master seems confident, as if this is something he does all the time.

Perhaps it is.

The Doctor watches, unable to look away, as the Master, still in his shirt, is pressed against the wall. The alien stands at a distance, politely removed, but its tentacles are caressing the Master, framing his hips, brushing over his mouth. The Master opens his lips for the alien and a tentacle pushes between, the alien seeming to shiver at the contact.  
The tentacles may be some sort of sexual organ. The Doctor's heard of such things. Or would the sensation be the same as the Master sucking on the Doctor's fingers? Sensual, but without the same shock of pleasure as the Master's mouth on the Doctor's cock?

The tentacle withdraws, pulling strings of saliva with it to dampen the Master's face. The alien says something, but the Doctor still can't hear, can't read unfamiliar lips to make out the comment. The Master quite obviously giggles, however, that sly, dry sound that he's cultivated in this regeneration. He says something in turn, and gestures, his own hands touching his throat, brushing his groin, reaching back to cup his arse. He's obviously demonstrating his own erogenous zones.

The Doctor knows what he would do, given that sort of show-and-tell. The alien follows the same impulse, nudging the Master around, pressing his face to the wall with a tentacle pressing to the back of his head. The Doctor leans in closer to the screen as the Master arches back, his arse displayed.

The alien's tentacles begin to glisten, and two from the same shoulder wrap around the Master's waist, holding him still. The Master twists against them, not struggling, just testing. He seems satisfied, since he subsides as the tentacles from the other shoulder wrap around his mouth. The alien gives a full-body shiver as, the Doctor supposes, the Master licks at its conveniently-placed extremities.

The only free tentacle teases, carefully, at the Master's arsehole. The Doctor can't quite work out how to zoom in, but he can just see the tip of the tentacle working its way into the Master, and more, and more, and the Master stiffens, a muscle in his neck straining as he pulls against the tentacles holding his head. The alien says something, and pushes a little further, and then the Master relaxes all at once, letting the alien take more of his weight. The Doctor's nose almost touches the monitor, trying to hear the sounds the Master is making, the ones muffled by the alien's limbs over his mouth.

Oh, yes, and he'd never gotten the sound on either. The Doctor scrambles over the console, constantly distracted from the task by the way the Master is now pressing back eagerly into the alien, jerking against the constraining tentacles at his waist.  
The Doctor loses sight of the screen for a moment as he ducks underneath the console and flips the sound on. Nothing happens, but when he looks back up he can't think to puzzle out what's wrong. He can't think much of anything.

The alien is gasping for breath, its mouth hanging open and its eyes gleaming. It strains and hauls the Master away from the wall, up onto his toes. It limbs rewrap around him, tentacles coming away from the Master's mouth to support his legs. With the new position, the alien can take all of the Master's weight, holding him up off the ground, gravity driving him deeper onto the tentacle inside him.

The alien must be fairly strong, muses the Doctor, transfixed by the sight of the Master's hard cock leaking as he took the extra length and girth. The Master was just a dead weight now, limp and vulnerable and open, soundless cries emitting from a slick, slack mouth.

Soundless cries. The Doctor realizes what he's done wrong, and reaches for the volume control, dialing it up. It had been on its quietest setting, even though he had unmuted the monitor. But he's worked it out now, and sound fills the TARDIS. The Master is loud in this regeneration, and his cries are easily audible despite the slightly tinny quality of the TARDIS' speakers.

"D-, oh God, oh God, harder, please, Do-, oh God, please, Doctor-"

The Doctor stiffens, fighting both the sensations of surprise and the tight arousal sending mixed signals from his stomach.

The alien makes a kind of clicking noise, and the Doctor curses. After all that, obviously the remote translation circuits aren't working properly. Well, he can't be bothered to try and fix them now.

"What?" says the Master, distractedly. He has to fight for coherence as the alien's tentacle pumps inside of him. "No, no, it's just a- ah- thing that my people- oh God, ah- say. It doesn't- ah, please, oh- mean anything, Tch'kl."

The alien hums, possibly pleased, and reorganizes its tentacles, freeing one to wrap around the Master's cock. It means the position is less stable, and the Master has to set one foot down to keep himself balanced. But neither of them seems to care, and the Master's face is tightening, his eyes screwing shut as he comes. His bluish semen dribbles between the coils of the tentacle covering his cock.

There's a pause for a moment, and then the alien starts to withdraw from the Master's body, the movements leaving both of them twitching with sensation. It clicks some more.

"Yes, of course," says the Master, slurring his words a little. "Just let me down."

The Doctor watches as the Master is released, the way he massages his own thighs and calves before kneeling on the floor. The alien pushes the tentacle covered with the Master's come in front of his face, and the Master takes it into his mouth, tasting himself, and then swallows, using the respiratory bypass for all it's worth.

The alien lets loose a series of frantic clicks, all of its tentacles pulsing. It takes a step forward for the first time, its spine bending almost in half so it can butt its head against the Master’s cheek, encouraging. But the Master chokes and pulls away, nearly falling as he forces his head back from the alien's. It retreats nearly as quickly, pulling its tentacle from the Master's mouth and clicking in a different sort of franticness from earlier. The Doctor reaches for the screen as the Master teeters some more, and is almost surprised when only the static of the screen meets his fingertips.

But the alien is there to catch the Master, only the tip of its tentacles on his shoulders, setting him aright. The Master takes a few deep breaths, his eyes wide open to make sure the alien isn't moving from its more-distant position.

"Sorry," he says. "Yes. Fuck. Sorry. I wasn't expecting it."

The alien clicks some more, asking something. The Doctor is starting to get sense from the sounds, either from more familiarity or from the remote translator starting to kick in at last.

"No, we should keep-" the Master stops as the alien clicks again, and then keeps talking over it. "I was enjoying myself. Just give me a moment."

The Master rearranges himself slowly, moving from a kneeling position to sitting cross-legged on the ground. He unbuttons his shirt and takes it off at last, wiping his face with the back before casting it aside. Finally, he nods at the alien.

"Just the tentacles, all right?" The Master giggles, and the Doctor can hear the slight nervousness behind the laughter this time. "We can do tentacles, I think."

The alien clicks in agreement, and brings its tentacle back to be fellated again. It's moving more cautiously now, but both of them seem to be agreeable to that. The Master draws more and more of the tentacle into himself until the alien is shaking and humming, its tentacles glistening again as they coat with that slime. The Doctor wonders how it tastes, how it feels on the Master's tongue, how it feels dripping down his chin, how-

It's not scientific interest, not friendly interest, not pettiness nor jealousy. The Doctor finds his hand wandering down into his trousers. Finds himself already hard, already dripping light blue precome onto his fingers. Perhaps he hadn't done as well at turning off his sex drive as he had previously thought.

The Doctor fights with the idea for a moment, and then gives in, stroking himself roughly as the Master hollows his cheeks and swallows. He couldn't do this for the Master, doesn’t have the patience, doesn't even have the right equipment, but in this moment the Doctor wants nothing more than to be that alien.

The alien itself shudders and begins to move again. Its feet and body are still, but four of its tentacles are reaching out, stroking the Master's face, his arse, his chest. Only the tentacle that had fucked the Master is kept away, and it is still hovering, trembling with the strain as the alien presumably tries to respect the Master's standards of hygiene. All of the tentacles glisten more, and slime drips through the Master's beard and paints his shoulders and arms.

"His neck was always sensitive," mutters the Doctor, nose pressing against the screen again. He knows they can't hear him, but the alien goes for the Master's neck anyway, wrapping a tentacle around his throat and tightening, just a little, as the tentacle in his mouth tries to push deeper. The Master spasms, hands fluttering uselessly as he presses up into it, into all of it. His eyes close, and he swallows again.

The Doctor holds his breath, only dimly aware of his hand working his cock.

The alien starts clicking again, the universal litany of yesyesyesyes. It doesn't stop until its tentacles are shuddering and jerking and turning bright, neon yellow. Probably climax, thinks the Doctor, with the small part of him that can still consider things rationally.

The alien withdraws its tentacles, still not stepping forward. It clicks a query, but the Master doesn't respond. His mouth hangs open for a moment, as if he can't believe that it's empty, and then it closes in a smile. He opens his eyes and stands up, taking his own step toward the alien. His cock is still soft and his eyes are a bit blurred, but he looks happy.

"Thank you," says the Master, courteous to a fault, and he still has some of his own ejaculate on his lips.

The Doctor comes.

He stares at the blue covering his hand for just a moment, before reaching his clean hand up to the console. He doesn't look at the monitor again before shutting off the feed.

When the Master comes back four hours later, voice raw and complaining about his knees hurting, the Doctor says nothing.

For his part, the Master doesn't say anything about the new recordings on the TARDIS' mini-matrix either.

Instead they just keep traveling, and still neither of them speaks to the other very much. It really is an odd way to do things - but exile and the Earth change you, and the Master doesn't think he could take either the Doctor's sharp edges or his inner softness, not anymore. No matter how much he wants to. 


End file.
